The Colour Of
by Duplicitywistful
Summary: A list of hair colours Remus has observed Tonks going through over the years.


Their first encounter was the colour of clumsy wine stains. Her hair was short, shaved close to her scalp on one side. It was the colour as she tripped over the umbrella stand and the colour of the bruise on her knee, visible through her ripped jeans. It was the colour of her rich lipstick and the colour of the liquid she sipped quietly after the meeting was through. It was the colour of a mystery novel Remus hadn't realized he had begun reading.

Walking out of Harry's bedroom, lugging his trunk down the stairs, her hair had become a pixie cut. It was the colour of medicine Remus had taken on accident as a small child and spilled all over himself and the kitchen counter. It was the colour of the bubblegum she would slip under the table to him with small notes written on the paper wrappers, the kind of bubblegum that lost its flavour after only a couple of minutes, but gave off the the sweetest slice of nostalgia. Her hair was the colour of the jokes she would tell, the colour of her smirk. It was the colour of innocence and flirtation.

Her hair had been cerulean blue the day they found a water demon living in the plumbing. Her hair was short but curly, held back with a headband. It was the colour of shivering and shrieking as her jeans were soaked all the way through. It was the colour of the furious growl he heard her make when the hexed the creature, the colour of her veins beneath her skin. It was the colour of the cardigan Remus dug out of his dresser to give her to warm up afterwards. He never got it back.

She was the colour of old perfume, of dusty record sleeves, and faux flowers the day she disguised herself as an old woman. She morphed herself into the pale lavender colour of ugly floral couches, strings of pearls, and collections of ceramics. It was the colour of a hairspray scent that was all too familiar, of music that he had long forgotten the words to, and of a painful past that had to be left behind in boxes at a local charity for money he needed to eat. It was too bitter of a colour, choking him like the smell of cigarette smoke burned into the carpet.

Their first date wasn't really a date in and of itself. It was nearly one in the morning and they had been chasing a couple on stray death eaters through a thick forest. No one got away unscathed that night. Exhausted and starving, their lead long gone into the night, the pair stumbled into the only open diner in what was probably an hour in any direction. The neon lights reflected off her dirty hair. She had tied it up into two buns, one on the top of each side of her head, but bothe had slowly unraveled throughout the night. Remus reaches across the table and had to pluck a leaf from her bangs. She was quiet as she ate, but Remus could see her thoughts swimming across her still face. Her hair turned electric purple. It was wild, hundreds of times more expressive than any facial expression she ever could've made. The colour of adrenaline and loud music, the colour of emotions flickering by as fast as a train, the colour of fear and disappointment and pure caffeine. It was the first time Remus caught himself staring at her.

Her hair was the colour of green apples, of sour candies, and of puckered cheeks the day she came and visited him the morning after the full moon. She was the colour of the tree branches that scraped across his window when his headache died back enough that he dared himself to look. She was the colour of nausea and the flavour of a lime jelly bean from the bag of Bertie Botts' she gave him as a gift. Her hair was the colour of his house plants that she watered for him on her way out, and the colour of his horrendous old bathtub, as he sat and pondered the idea that perhaps there was a person out there that didn't completely ignore him.

Her hair was short again. It was too bright for her complexion and too cheery for the occasion. It was the colour of birthday cake, of lemon tea, and of scrambled eggs. It was the colour of the sweater she said she liked Remus the most in, and the colour of daffodils he knew she secretly adored. It was the colour of buttered popcorn they ate at the movie that night. It was a fleeting moment of something that resembled happiness.

She suffered a head injury the day Sirius fell through the veil. Her hair was the colour of the stars, of Shakespearean poems, and of the small poisonous galaxy that lived inside his cup as he choked on his monthly potion. She was she was the colour of chipped fingernail polish and mismatched socks. She was the colour of bags sinking beneath both of their eyes and the colour of the laundry pile Remus kept saying he would eventually get around to. It was the colour of the last few sips of black coffee left in his mug, the colour of the dishes in the sink that needed washing, the colour of her sneakers that were two sizes too big for her.

Her hair was the colour of the ocean. She wore it at chin length, but it was so wavy and thick, it could've been longer. It was the colour of the sky at dusk right before an electrical storm. It was the colour of loss and confusion, of swimming in a deep teal abyss. It was the colour of her coat, the colour of her pet fish that had to be flushed down the toilet, and the colour of the pills the healers had prescribed Remus to help him sleep. It was the colour of the blanket she left on his couch after crashing there for the night after a tough mission, and the colour of a four leaf clover she gave to Remus to press on one of his books, claiming that they both needed something, anything to give them some good luck. It was the colour of the socks he found in his bathroom, and the colour of her underwear that he found beneath the bed.

Her hair was the colour of yelling. It was the colour of the box of chocolates he bought her for Valentine's Day that she eventually threw in his face by the end of the night. It was the swollen colour her lips turned when he kissed her and the colour of the bruises he left across her chest. It was the colour of her sharp moans and gasps for air as she climaxed, the same colour as her bloodshot, tearful eyes. It was the colour of their flushes cheeks, of the scratches and marks that took days to clear up. It was the colour of cigarette butts still burning in the ashtray, the colour of all of the words he had been afraid of hearing, the colour of attachment. It was a colour he could feel in between his fingers, bleeding into him. It was the colour of Remus's wounds after chasing down the werewolves. It was the colour of suicide.

Her hair was the colour of old books and tall trees. It was the colour of fur, the colour of dried leaves, and freshly brewed coffee. She was the colour of the kitchen table at the Burrow, and of the tea that was always welcome upon arrival. He asked her why her hair was that colour. She yawned. It was leftover from work, she said. She didn't seem to stop by his flat so much anymore, he said. She was the colour of milk chocolate that he tried to offer her which she promptly declined. It was the colour of their dead plants, and the colour of the morning sunrise after not sleeping through the night. It was the colour of his record collection that had grown tiresome, of the fleece blanket that no longer felt warm, the colour of porridge that no longer had any taste. It was the colour of overdue haircuts. It was the colour of waving wands, of beasts of unspeakable size and power with gnashing teeth, of empty potion bottles that littered the kitchen counter.

It was the colour of bubblegum again, but not all at once for a while. It was the colour of her bubble bath and her shampoo. She became the colour of sunsets, and the roses that bloomed on the side of her parents' house. It was the colour of smooth lipgloss, of strawberries and raspberries, and the colour of peaches. She was the colour of the flowers he gave her, the colour of soft giggles and lullabies, and sweltering hot summer. It was the colour of ice cream and a new set of lingerie. It was the colour of her laugh, of her blush, and the sunburn she got over the summer. It was the colour of flowers she wore in her hair to her wedding. It was the colour of cotton candy, of laundry detergent, and of the two little lines on her pregnancy test.

Her hair became the colour of wet pavement. It became the colour of an abandoned house, of old newspapers, of an empty bed. Her hair became the colour of photographs covered in a film of dust. Slowly, she became a chameleon. Her body became one with the bedsheets in her childhood bedroom, the colour of the food her father would leave out for her but never got eaten, the colour of sweatpants. Her hair became the colour of drywall beneath wallpaper, the colour of dry skin left over from crying out all of her tears. She became the colour of an empty fire whiskey bottle, the stiff, hollow air of the Leaky Cauldron. She became the colour of a clock ticking in slow motion.

It took months, but her hair regained its colour just as Remus regained his spot at her side. It became the colour of warm rain, of bleak clouds, and then to the colour of the snow that laid a soft blanket on the ground. It became the colour of his large shirts that masked the new growth budding at her waist, the colour of Christmas lights, and the choppy waves outside Shell Cottage. It became the static that rumbled on the radio, the pages upon pages upon pages that Remus was reading, the colour of the sugar cookies they made together, and the colour of the afghan they fell asleep under on Christmas Eve. It became a blank canvas, their future hanging so uncertain that she couldn't decide what to become.

It was pink again for a while. It was the same colour her son was when he was born, the same colour as her sweating face after hours of labour, the same colour as when she nursed him. It was the colour of the kiss Remus gave her, the colour of their smiles as they held their newborn for the first time. It was the colour of peaceful dreams, a strange excitement that she woke up with, a new enthusiasm for her new life. It was the colour of half of the baby socks they had, given their limited choices. It was the colour her son tried to match with his own tufts of hair, and it was the colour of long-overdue laughter.

She died with her hair the colour of her coffin.


End file.
